I’m a Recovering Pessimist

please don't ruin it, like i know you will

I’m a recovering pessimist, so please don’t ruin it by saying something that will scare me or make me worried like I know you will. For example, if I tell you I really love something, don’t tell me, “Oh, you just wait. You’ll hate it soon enough.”

Rude!

And the truth is, once you tell me that, my mind flips a switch, and suddenly, I’m craving negativity all over again. Like an alcoholic chasing that next drink, I crave the comfort of pessimism—even though it leaves me saying and doing things I know I’ll regret.

I’m the type of person who doesn’t just listen to complaints; I adopt them like stray kittens.

“Oh, you’re worried about the economy? Oh, I guess I should be too.”

Health problems?

“I think I’m starting to feel sick, and all it took was you to help me notice that.”

If you want someone to join you in your misery, I’m an excellent CO-miserator. I’ll join you in a heartbeat. All you have to do is complain, and I’m in the muck with you, trudging along in your waist-deep despair.

Check that: nope, probably in more despair than you because that’s just what I do.

I didn’t set out to be a pessimist. I just have the curse of empathy. Someone’s worried about their retirement fund? Suddenly, I’m thinking, “Is it too late to start a retirement fund?” (Oh, look, another kitten!) A friend mentions how messed up the world is, and boom—I’m one YouTube documentary away from building a bunker for me and my kittens.

The sneaky thing about pessimism is that it often wears a disguise. We call it “realism.”

“I’m not negative,” we say. “I’m just being honest about how bad things are.”

But let’s be real for a second—when has that mindset ever brought anyone peace?

I’ll wait.

Exactly.

Here’s where it gets personal: I’ve noticed that when I absorb someone else’s complaints, I’m not actually helping them carry their burden. I’m just amplifying the noise of their fears—and mine.

Instead of pointing them toward hope, I’m basically saying, “You’re right, we’re all doomed. Let’s panic together!”

But faith calls us to something different. God doesn’t say, “Whatever is depressing, frustrating, or terrifying—think about these things. Oh, and complain about them to all your friends!”

He wants us to think about and talk about whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and admirable. That doesn’t mean ignoring real problems; it means thinking about Him instead of the fact that you think the world is out of control and falling apart.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to do that when people make the effort to point out to me whatever is depressing, frustrating, or terrifying. I feel like I just have to cover my ears and walk away singing “It is Well with My Soul.”

I mean, I’ve tried saying things like, “No, please! TMI!” While covering my ears. And, “I’m not really into politics.” But they keep talking anyway, as I find myself drowning in their misery: a misery that they seem to be riding like a killer wave. It’s like they’re really good surfers, and I’m strapped to a chair, and they take me out and push me off the board and say, “Isn’t this miserable?”

“Yeah, for who?” I’m definitely sinking deeper than they are.

So, what’s the solution? Honestly, I don’t have a perfect one. I wish I could tell you I’ve mastered the art of blocking out complaints like I’ve got spiritual noise-canceling headphones, but I haven’t. I still absorb people’s misery like I’m getting paid for it.

What I can say is this: I’m learning to change the channel in my head—not by ignoring the negativity around me but by choosing not to let it set up camp in my mind. Philippians 4:8 literally says, “Whatever is true, whatever is worthy of respect, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if something is excellent or praiseworthy, think about these things,” not all the negativity and worrisome stuff. That’s not a mere platitude; that’s a survival strategy for a recovering pessimist like myself.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time someone starts unloading their complaints, instead of diving into the muck with them, I can toss them a lifeline. A gentle reminder that, yes, the world is messy, but God is still on His throne. Or, if I don’t have the words, maybe I just don’t need to join in their misery. I will work ever diligently on listening without letting it own me.

So if you see me coming, and you’ve got a fresh complaint locked and loaded—maybe give me a break and save it for someone else? I’m still in recovery, after all.